


Check-Up

by redredribbons



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Mildly Dubious Consent, Restraints, Spark Sex, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredribbons/pseuds/redredribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pharma decides to have a bit of fun during Tarn’s regularly-scheduled T-cog transplant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check-Up

Pharma couldn’t precisely remember when he’d first discovered Tarn’s “peculiarity”. It had been an entirely accidental finding, stemming largely from the fact that Tarn was a spectacularly uncooperative patient. No matter how many times Pharma scolded, nagged, threatened and yelled at the tank, he simply  _could not keep still_  during T-cog replacement. Tarn would rev his engines angrily and growl that he was  _trying_ ; once he even made the mistake of insulting Pharma’s skill as a doctor. Only once. As punishment Pharma had made him wait days for a replacement, and Tarn was left with the agony and frustration of compulsively attempting transformation with a burnt-out, non-functional cog. Never again. Even so, learning that valuable lesson did nothing to decrease his squirminess during the procedure itself. Pharma had nearly nicked key energon lines or dripped solder onto the wrong circuit as a result, and he’d be damned if he was going to let  _Tarn_  of all people soil his impeccable medical reputation over something as routine as a T-cog replacement. He knew Tarn’s addiction made him jittery and twitchy if he went too long without transforming— and by the time Pharma arrived to replace his T-cog it had usually been longer than he could bear. Not that Pharma particularly cared. And there was something cruelly satisfying about seeing one of the most feared mechs in the Universe, literally the stuff of Cybertronian nightmares, all antsy and squirmy because he hadn’t been able to turn into a tank for almost  _one whole day_. However, as tempting as it was at times to simply leave Tarn to his misery, he had made a deal. The other four members of the Decepticon Justice Division were aware of the deal, and would be neither pleased nor merciful if their beloved leader suffered unduly. 

So Pharma had decided— with more than a touch of sadistic glee— that restraints were in order for the fearsome DJD leader, to ensure that the weekly procedure went as smoothly as possible. 

The first surprise had been how readily Tarn had agreed to this idea. He’d voiced some half-hearted arguments and then capitulated without even issuing so much as a single threat of violence against Pharma’s person. The second surprise had been Tarn’s willing cooperation. Normally he was in a surly mood before the transplant, having gone too long without a transformation fix. But this time there was a distinct light-heartedness in his voice beyond simply the excitement of an addict about to receive his next fix. He had laid down on the medical berth with nary a word of protest, and positioned his limbs just as Pharma ordered. The way Tarn had replied, smooth and obedient, with “ _yes, Doctor_ ” made Pharma’s spark pulse in a decidedly unprofessional manner. The third surprise had come in the form of the deep, armor-rattling shudder that seized Tarn’s frame each time Pharma clicked a restraint into place over a wrist or ankle. By the time all of Tarn’s limbs were secured, the whir of his cooling fans and steady, idling purr of his engine were clearly audible. That first time, Pharma had resisted his baser impulses; there were certain boundaries between doctor and patient that must be respected. Under normal circumstances, at least. 

But nothing about the arrangement with Tarn qualified as normal. 

This time around, Pharma decided to indulge a bit. With his superior physical strength and vocal ability, Tarn had left the medic helpless and begging— both for overload and for mercy— on more than a few occasions. Surely a bit of revenge against a Decepticon as vile as Tarn wasn’t too far outside the Autobot playbook. 

So this time, when Tarn arrived at Delphi exactly on time for this week’s appointment, Pharma hurried him inside through a small side door. 

“Move it!” hissed Pharma, “There’s only so much security cam footage I can delete before First Aid notices.”

“Nice to see you too, Doctor,” Tarn chuckled as he followed Pharma through a seldom-used service hallway, “How’s business?”

“Just fantastic,” Pharma drawled icily, ignoring the implicit threat. Tarn always asked him that, and by “business” he meant “the supply of T-cogs”. 

“Such a charming bedside manner, as always,” Tarn continued, sounding as amused as ever. Pharma gave him an ineffective, impatient shove into one of the medical center’s surgery bays. Once the door sealed securely in place behind them, Pharma exhaled a long vent of air. There were no cameras here. No other Decepticons skulking about. They were truly alone. The thought would have been frightening to Pharma in any other setting. But Pharma was very much the master of his domain, and Tarn seemed far less threatening here, in Pharma’s own surgery bay, than he did at the DJD’s headquarters. That and the fact that Tarn was about to be completely at his mercy. The resulting spike in his core temperature was the final burst of confidence Pharma needed. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin higher.

“Get on the operating table. Lay on your back,” Pharma ordered.

“Bossy today, aren’t we?” Tarn said, optics glowing inscrutably through his mask. He complied immediately though, his gaze flicking eagerly to a fresh T-cog waiting on the smaller instrument table nearby. 

Pharma huffed and rolled his optics. “Since we learned last week that jittery addicts don’t make good surgery patients, we’ll be using the restraints again.”

“ _Yes_ , Doctor,” Tarn lowered his voice to its most enticing purr. 

Pharma froze for a moment as those two simple words took hold of him, walking down his backstrut like heated fingertips before burrowing into his spark. Determined not to lose control, he grabbed one of Tarn’s wrists and yanked it into position before clipping a restraint in place. Normally he’d check to make sure the restraints weren’t uncomfortable; with Tarn, he pulled them an extra notch tighter than necessary. Not that the tank seemed to mind at all. Tarn’s plating grew warmer to the touch and his engine rumbled. His EM field prickled hotly against Pharma’s in a brazen temptation. 

The medic ignored it for the time being and, having secured all four of Tarn’s limbs in place, stepped back to admire his handiwork. The tank’s huge purple hands were trapped harmlessly against the table alongside his hips. His posture may have passed for relaxation, if not for the telling flares of his EM field and his greedy glances toward the nearby T-cog. Pharma wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and a lazy smirk played across his lips. The rush of power he felt was heady. Intoxicating. Already his spark throbbed in its chamber. Despite the thrill associated with having one of the most terrifying Decepticons in the universe strapped to his table and  _excited_ about it, Pharma was first and foremost a practical mech. Though his body may have been immobilized, Tarn was far from disarmed. His vocalizer modifications were his most powerful weapon of all. Pharma’s smile grew wider; he would take care of  _that_  soon enough. 

Pharma sidled closer to the table and skimmed his fingertips up Tarn’s broad chest. Reaching the thick rubber layers at the sides of his neck, he idly traced the pattern of the treads. Red optics flickered and Tarn gave a low growl. Pharma couldn’t tell (and didn’t care) if it was pleasure or warning. 

“Before I begin the transplant, I believe it would be prudent to take certain… precautions,” Pharma said. His wandering hand reached Tarn’s throat. The insinuation was not lost on the tank, who jerked his head away from the suddenly unwelcome touch. His EM field flared hot in rage and.. was that a hint of  _fear_? 

“That will  _not_ be necessary,” Tarn hissed. Pharma grit his teeth against the icy daggers of pain that ripped into his spark. He gripped the edge of the table for stability and forced himself to make optic contact with Tarn.

“Do you want… a new T-cog… or not… you lumbering… scrapheap?” he ground out, absolutely determined to stay standing, to not show Tarn how much it hurt. Tarn was not in control here, Pharma was— and Pharma had no intention of letting him forget. Tarn’s optics shone bright with helpless fury and, even with the mask in place, Pharma could sense the turmoil in his expression. Zealous loyalty to the Decepticon cause and absolute single-mindedness toward eliminating its enemies— or his next transformation fix. 

A soft hum from Tarn smoothed the pain away as quickly as it had arrived.  

“I knew you’d see reason,” Pharma murmured, lips grazing the purple mask, “Now… open for me.  _Here_.”

Pharma gently massaged the flexible but sturdy plating protecting Tarn’s throat. The metal trembled under his touch before slowly, reluctantly, folding apart. Underneath lay a complex tangle of sensory cables and energon lines of varying thickness— some small and fragile, while others, responsible for carrying fuel and sensory input to the farther reaches of Tarn’s frame, were nearly as thick as Pharma’s finger. The energon lines pulsed softly, while glimmers of electrical current zipped along sensory wires. Pharma knew the name and exact function of each. And he knew exactly which ones would result in slow, excruciating death if severed. The thought crossed Pharma’s mind only briefly; the other four DJD knew where Tarn was and would inevitably pay a visit if he didn’t return. Instead he slid two fingertips carefully down the length of a wire, enjoying the way Tarn’s cooling fans stuttered at the strange but intense sensation. 

“Very good, Tarn. Very good,” Pharma said. He carefully gathered the cables on the right half of Tarn’s throat into a neat bundle and used a rubber-lined metal clip to secure them to the side, out of the way. He repeated the procedure on the left side, leaving a small diamond-shaped opening even deeper into Tarn’s neck. Through that opening lay Pharma’s goal: Tarn’s prized vocalizer. It was a small, unassuming grey box nestled near his spinal strut. A spiderweb of tiny wires fed into it, supplying it with fuel and command inputs from Tarn’s processor. Two transparent, wafer-thin chips had been soldered to each side of the vocalizer.  _That_ wasn’t standard Cybertronian anatomy. The chips had to be Tarn’s modifications, and Pharma was immediately seized with scientific curiosity. He leaned in closer and prodded at the tiny chips with a thin metal probe. 

“Doctor…” Tarn breathed, almost pleading. The vocalizer vibrated as he spoke and a previously-invisible circuit pattern on the chips began to glow. Pharma’s spark fluttered in response. 

“What an incredible mod…” Pharma said with complete sincerity. He’d never seen anything like it before. Given how simple the mod was, Pharma theorized that at least some part of Tarn’s ability was a natural gift; Tarn could probably influence mechs’ emotions and moods on his own, and the modification amplified this capability to an extreme. Pharma had heard of (or worked first-hand on) telepathic mechs and mechs who could generate forcefields or control magnets or levitate— but Tarn’s particular ability was, as far as Pharma knew, one of a kind. Tarn could kill with the right frequencies, but could he also perform the reverse and coax a flickering spark back to life? The medical possibilities were fascinating. Without conscious thought, Pharma ghosted a soft kiss against the bundled cables in Tarn’s neck. The tank trembled beneath him. 

“I  _know_  you enjoy it, Doctor,” Tarn said, pride bolstering his confidence anew. Again Pharma slumped forward, gripping the edge of the table for balance. A little “oh—” escaped his lips as his spark throbbed in his chest, heavy and too hot. The sensation flowed outward until every circuit in his body sang. Pharma couldn’t deny it: Tarn and his horrible, sensual voice could bring him pleasure of a type he’d never experienced with anyone else. Tarn could make him overload without ever touching him. 

“Yes. Well,” Pharma cleared his throat to distract himself, “I can’t have any interferenceduring the procedure. So I’ll have to disable this. Temporarily, of course.”

Pharma rummaged through his toolbox in search of a wave dampener. Normally he used this particular device to prevent involuntary forcefield flare-ups when operating on mechs who possessed electromagnetic manipulation abilities. He fervently hoped it would work on sound waves, too. 

“You’ve replaced my T-cog many times without altering my vocalizer,” Tarn retorted. He sounded almost petty, and Pharma stifled a chuckle. 

“Shh, shh. Hush now,” Pharma cooed, mock soothing, and fastened the small device across the opening in Tarn’s throat as best he could. 

“This is  _not_  what we agreed upon,” Tarn snarled. Though still audible, his voice sounded muffled and distant. The two small chips glowed brightly as he spoke, but Pharma felt neither overwhelming pain nor pleasure in his spark. The dampener was working. He grinned wolfishly at the now fully defanged Decepticon. 

“I’m replacing your T-cog, aren’t I? I believe that is  _exactly_  what he agreed upon,” Pharma hummed. He rubbed his thumbs along the diagonal pink light strips on Tarn’s chest. “Now open here for me.”

Tarn obeyed with considerably less hesitation this time. His chest plating parted easily under Pharma’s touch to reveal his spark chamber and, just below and to the side, his cracked and warped T-cog. 

“Tch, tch. You really must do something about this problem of yours, Tarn. An overheated T-cog can potentially fuse with the surrounding circuitry,” Pharma scolded, “And that is _not_  pretty.”

“Your concern is so touching,” the Decepticon growled. Inordinately pleased with himself, Pharma laid his hands on Tarn’s spark chamber. The metal there was almost painfully hot to the touch, and practically vibrating with pent-up energy from the swollen spark within. Skilled surgeon’s fingers expertly worked their way into the chamber’s seams and hinges, teasing and pinching. Tarn arched into the touched as much as the restraints would allow and his hands clenched involuntarily against the table. 

“That’s it, Tarn. Show me your spark,” Pharma purred, optics dusky, tongue flicking back out over his lips. The heat building under his own plating was becoming borderline uncomfortable.

“Doctor, the T-cog…” Tarn whined, all the aggression bleeding out of him under the spell of Pharma’s skillful torments. Primus damn that medic’s  _perfect_ hands, and the promise of a fresh cog, so close…

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten,” Pharma replied nonchalantly. He dug his hands deeper into Tarn’s massive chest and curled his fingers all the way to the back of his spark chamber. That area was heavily lined with sensory inputs for the purpose of diffusing the spark’s electrical energy through the rest of the body. The intimate side effect being, of course, extreme sensitivity of the spark and its surrounding mechanisms. Pharma’s nimble fingers effortlessly sought the deeply-buried nodes and pinched. The reaction was instant: Tarn’s head listed to one side and he moaned a soft melody. His spark chamber flew open with a sharp _clang_. The brightness of his spark burst forth as long tendrils of energy twisted in search of completion. Though Pharma had so far been successful in keeping his cooling fans quiet, they whirred to life at the sight of the Decepticon’s intense arousal. His own spark was practically aching by now, painfully hot in his chest, yearning to join with Tarn’s. He stared directly into the swirling vortex of Tarn’s spark, barely aware that he was steadily leaning closer and closer. Heat stung his faceplates but he didn’t flinch, hypnotized by the surging, greedy life force. Lips brushed the edge of Tarn’s spark chamber and Pharma pushed deeper until he could tongue the tiny circuit clusters just inside. Tarn’s entire frame rattled against the tabled, all revving engines and cooling fans and uncontrollable shudders. He moaned so beautifully, and every time Pharma heard his name from that accursed wonderful vocalizer his own core temperature spiked higher. Electrical current from Tarn’s spark tingled through Pharma’s lips and faceplates and Primus he wanted to make Tarn overload like this.

But first, he had a job to do. With a grunt he tore himself away and sucked in slow, deep cycles of air. Tarn cursed at the abrupt loss of stimulation. 

“Now, now. No need for that sort of talk. Let’s proceed with the transplant,” Pharma said. Business before pleasure, especially when his life depended on said business. He wiggled his dextrous fingers above the instrument table before selecting a soldering iron. Tarn flinched when its red hot tip made contact with the mesh of wires securing his T-cog into place. Despite the haze of desire clouding his process, Pharma was laser-focused on the task. With a steady hand and careful slowness, he melted the connections linking each tiny wire to the cog. When the last one popped free, he plucked out the damaged T-cog with a pair of forceps. He held it up for examination and wrinkled his nose in disapproval at its shoddy condition before dropping unceremoniously on the instrument table. Installing the new T-cog was a greater challenge: it had to be held precisely in position to ensure the wires connected in the correct spots. It was only through vorns of experience that Pharma had mastered the elaborate balancing act of positioning the cog properly while simultaneously handling the iron and spool of solder. Tarn tilted his head up to watch with begrudging admiration. Finally, the last blob of solder sizzled into place. Pharma switched the iron off and stepped back.

“All done,” he said briskly, smirking down at his incapacitated patient, “One fully functional T-cog. At least  _try_  to get more than a week out of this one, will you?”

Tarn’s chest plating, however, remained open. Pharma said nothing; he began cleaning his tools as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“Doctor,” a low, sub-bass growl sent a shiver down Pharma’s backstrut.

“Yes, Tarn? Do you need something else?” the medic asked lightly, sauntering over to his patient and resting a hand casually on the edge of the exposed spark chamber. Tarn bit back a groan and turned his head away. Oh, this was too good; was the mighty DJD leader  _ashamed_? 

“You know, I  _am_  a medical professional…” Pharma climbed on the table and straddled Tarn’s waist— “It is my  _duty_  to ensure your physical well-being” He lowered himself until his face hovered mere inches above Tarn’s spark chamber— “What happens between doctor and his patient is strictly confidential” He lifted his sadistic gaze to Tarn’s mask and slowly ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth— “So tell me where it hurts, Tarn.”

Tarn’s head dropped back onto the table with a dull clank and an uncharacteristically pitiful whine wheedled out of his talented vocalizer. As sweet as Tarn’s desperation was, though, Pharma wanted  _words_. So he began a path of fleeting kisses all around Tarn’s spark— enough to keep his charge levels running high, but not enough to provide release. He received a garbled, staticky sound in response, barely audible over the roar of overtaxed cooling fans. 

“What was that, Tarn?” Pharma purred between kisses, “I couldn’t quite understand…”

“Please, Doctor,” Tarn panted as Pharma ripped away the final shreds of his pride with  soft kisses, “It’s my spark, I need—”

“You have to  _tell_  me what you need,” Pharma didn’t so much speak as allow his lips to form the words against that trembling spark chamber. 

And that was it. Tarn’s head whipped to the side and the restraints creaked ominously under his considerable strength. “Let me _overload_ , you wretched Autobot!” he bellowed. 

Pharma laughed at the Decepticon’s obvious distress. It was tempting, so tempting, to leave him unfulfilled and aching. But Pharma knew he’d be done for the moment Tarn shook the wave dampener loose. 

“Mmm, I guess that’s what passes for politeness amongst you wretched Decepticons,” Pharma chuckled before redoubling his attention to the engorged spark so close to his faceplates. Again he plunged his dextrous hands into the masses of circuitry inside Tarn’s chest. With one hand he began working over all the sensor connections on Tarn’s  spark chamber, pinching and twisting, while the other wandered slightly lower to the newly-installed T-cog. He pressed on it just so, and Tarn’s body spasmed in a precursor of transformation. The tank’s optics flashed at the tidal waves of sensation crashing through him. His vocalizer could no longer produce anything but static, and his fans began to click from stress. Pharma could tell his patient was dangerously close to an emergency shutdown— something he would’ve shrugged off if not for the burning need in his own spark. A need which, he guiltily admitted, would be far better satisfied by Tarn’s own talents. So Pharma put his mouth to use once more, ignoring the painfully strong current and heat blazing through his faceplates from the overcharged spark under him. A little moan slipped out as he dragged his tongue over bundles of wires and finally, bit down with just enough pressure.

Tarn bucked against the table so forcefully that Pharma nearly tumbled off. An obscene shout of pleasure echoed through the room, all shot through with hazy static and of impressive volume given that dampener’s effects. Pharma leaned back just in time to avoid the blinding burst of energy cascading from Tarn’s spark as his charge level finally exploded past the breaking point into a noisy, violent, exquisite overload. The medic braced his hands on Tarn’s abdomen until the convulsions ceased. Red optics faded to darkness, and the massive tank frame grew abruptly still. Pharma wiggled eagerly as a slag-eating grin crept across his faceplates; Tarn had been knocked completely offline by the intensity of his overload. His processor would reboot in a few minutes, and a chilly tendril of apprehension wormed its way through Pharma’s smugness. As amenable to Pharma’s games as Tarn had been thus far, there was no telling how he’d react now that both his addiction and carnal desires were fulfilled. Pharma confronted an unpleasant choice: free Tarn and let him leave on his own (doing Primus knew what to Pharma on his way out) or leave Tarn strapped to the table, flee… and count the hours until the rest of the DJD dropped in. Tarn on his own was bad enough— dealing with all five together was precisely why Pharma had entered into the “agreement” in the first place. With a sigh of resignation, he hastily unclipped Tarn’s restraints and backed toward the door. Tarn was stronger, but Pharma was faster. 

A soft  _ping_  sounded, signaling that Tarn’s systems had come back on line. One huge purple hand shot up from the table and clawed at his throat. The wave dampener crumpled under the grip of a mighty fist and Pharma cursed under his breath— that wasn’t a cheap piece of equipment. The small clips holding the wires in Tarn’s throat followed, flicked aside like annoying insects. Tarn shifted his spark chamber and plating back to its proper place with lightning speed and jerked up into a sitting position as if he’d just received an electrical shock. 

Pharma was already out the door, into the hallway, when he heard it: “ _Do not move.”_

That voice shackled him more effectively than stasis cuffs ever could have. Pharma stood frozen, body and hands contorted like a mech possessed as his spark boiled into a red river of agony. 

“Running away so soon, little Pharma? I have yet to repay you for providing such  _superb_  medical care. I know how much you love to be appreciated. Praised.  _Worshipped_ ,” Tarn continued. He approached Pharma slowly, deliberately, letting the medic’s fear and anticipation build. An incomprehensible choked sound wormed out of Pharma and he tried to force himself to move. To do anything. But his joint cabling refused to obey, and even the slightest twitch seemed to stoke the blistering pain in his spark. Tarn wrapped his arms around Pharma’s waist in the that mockingly, infuriatingly tender way of his and the medic’s rigid frame gradually relaxed. 

“No need to be so tense,” Tarn purred, fingertips rubbing soothing circles on Pharma’s lower back, supporting his sagging frame through the disorienting whiplash between pain and pleasure. Pharma balled his hands weakly against Tarn’s chest. His mouth opened and shut but no sound escaped. 

Tarn gave the disoriented jet no opportunity to recover. “You are such a good doctor, aren’t you, little Pharma? So loyal to your companions. So honorable. You supply me with new T-cogs, just to keep them safe. And you do even more than that, don’t you Pharma?”

The medic writhed helplessly in Tarn’s strong arms as he blindly ground their chest plating together. His spark was so hot he could feel it buzzing in its chamber as its tightly contained energy clamored for release. The more Tarn spoke the more Pharma’s vision contracted until darkness closed in and all he could see was an endless wasteland of black and purple plating. He was hopelessly lost, and his only guide was the dulcet, sickly-sweet sound of Tarn’s voice. 

“Mmm, yes…” Tarn whispered, reaching down to cup Pharma’s aft and letting his words caress his eager spark, “This enticing little frame of yours warms my bed so wonderfully… do you have any idea how beautiful you sound when you’re crying my name? How gracefully your frame moves when your spark is twining with mine?”

“Oh Primus… oh Tarn…” Pharma moaned, optics glowing so brightly they were nearly white. It was incomprehensible to him how anything could feel this good.

“Just like that,” Tarn said, giving the pert aft a squeeze and nuzzling the side of Pharma’s helm, “But, do you know what I like the very  _best_  about this arrangement? The thing that drives me wild? Hm?”

Pharma was distantly aware that Tarn had asked a question and stammered, “Wh-wha—”

“When you  _surrender_  to me,” a rough, growling edge crept into Tarn’s voice and Pharma answer each luscious syllable with a breathy moan. “Yes… when you give in to your desires. When you’re  _mine_.”

Pharma’s mouth hung slack and he would’ve collapsed to the floor if not for Tarn holding him up. A continuous stream of overheat warnings flashed through his vision. 

“And best of all…” Tarn paused, savoring the thick, desperate tension in the air, “when you  _overload for me_ , Pharma.”

Pharma gave a weak, raspy cry and thrashed against Tarn. The overload seared through him brutally, and he was quite sure some of the more delicate components of his spark chamber melted. Little crackles of pent-up electricity burst from the seams in his armor as his frame seized with energy discharge. When the overload finally subsided, Tarn gave an unseen smirk at the limp jet in his arms. Thin curls of smoke rose from several gaps in Pharma’s armor; it appeared the poor doctor had burnt something out. Tarn took an moment to enjoy the  _tick_  of cooling metal that always followed an exceptionally intense overload.  When he let go of Pharma, the medic’s legs gave out and he flopped over in an embarrassing heap on the floor. He was still online, but barely. 

“As always, you have my deepest gratitude for your… services, Doctor,” Tarn said, the teasing smile evident in his voice, “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’ll show myself out.”

He gave an elegant bow and turned on his heel. 

“Primus damn you…” Pharma croaked feebly.

“Oh, don’t be so cross. I’ll be back next week— I trust you’ll have a new T-cog for me by then,” Tarn called over his shoulder. He indulged himself and transformed into a tank, then back again, before disappearing around the corner. Pharma made no move to get up, instead laying back on the cool floor and cursing Tarn for always keeping his word.


End file.
